The Adventure of the Electric Child
by Rose Copperhaven
Summary: Years after the 'final problem' is solved, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson find themselves facing their most difficult adventure - a young girl claiming to be Sherlock's daughter. Clueless and inexperienced, the world's only consulting detective seeks the help of his friends to take care of the girl while he tries to deduce her and her purpose.
1. Chapter 1

"Watson." Sherlock Holmes' voice echoed throughout the flat and reached the bathroom in a matter of seconds. The toilet flushed and Dr. John Watson emerged from within, rubbing the palms of his hands on the seat of his jeans. He ignored Sherlock and proceeded to the kitchen with a sigh. The sink was filled to the brim with used dishes, scraps of lasagna and mashed potatoes still sticking to the middle of the plates. Just as John was reaching for the pair of yellow latex gloves sitting next to the dish soap, Sherlock bellowed out in a loud yet monotone voice, "You didn't wash your hands. Don't do touch anything until you've washed them." John quickly looked back at his companion with a confused expression, stumbling over his words. "But how did you...forget it." Sherlock closed his eyes, placed his fingertips together under his chin, and chuckled once to himself before adding, "And change your pants."

Rain was dripping down both small windows facing Baker Street. It had been raining the past three days with no signs of ceasing, thunder booming throughout the silent city and lightning lighting up the gray sky with a bolt of white light. Tele never interested either Sherlock or John so they sat in near silence aside from the high-pitched screeches of Sherlock's violin. "Incoming cases have come to a standstill these past two weeks," John typed slowly with his index fingers. The bleak letters appeared in the little white text box on the screen, projecting his thoughts back at him. He paused and stared at his blog realizing its recent boring tone. There were descriptions of possible cases that arrived on their doorstep and homemade dinners cooked by Mrs. Hudson. As he scrolled, Sherlock stood up from his lounging position on the couch and glanced out the window onto the glistened street. A boring black cab crawled by and he followed it with his eyes until it turned the corner and continued on its way.

Boring was a familiar feeling to Sherlock but it had never reached this magnitude. The cases that found their way to his living room were utterly uninteresting: an infidelity, a hacker, this and that. None of it truly turned his mind around the way he liked and none gave him the thrill of a chase. Even John was becoming dull, fading in and out of the flat without a word or motive. John found himself wandering museums by day and listening to Sherlock's violin by night. Both rarely uttered words to each other, aside from an occasional "Hello" and "Do you know what Mrs. Hudson is cooking?" Their seperate rooms were both littered with laundry, a week's worth of worn buttondown dress shirts and mostly beige slacks; their shoes were piled by the coathook next to the door. In short, life had paradoxically been both slow and unorganized.

Sherlock watched the rain fall in heavy droplets onto the pavement across the street, nothing specifically running through his mind at the time. "John? Have you any idea what Mrs. Hudson is baking downstairs?" he asked in a confused tone. He let the curtain slip from his spidery fingertips before turning towards his only friend. John looked up from his chair with puppy eyes and shook his head. "I haven't spoken to her all day," he answered. "Barely heard her walk about downstairs. Do you think she's alright?" Genuine concern snuck its way into his query. Sherlock walked fiercely past his partner and into the kitchen. "Yes, of course she's alright, Watson!" he shouted back. "There's no reason she shouldn't be." John stared at the door thoughtfully, wondering if Mrs. Hudson truly was okay. Sherlock had added that she was on her way up right now, but it passed unheard by John.

The door opened slowly, swinging swiftly on its hinges while Mrs. Hudson wedged her small bottom between the door and frame. Her blonde hair was sprayed stiff upon her pink, wide-eyed face, a light tan dress hanging from her frail shoulders. In her arms she held a silver platter with an assortment of biscuits and two cups of hot peppermint tea. "Oh, boys! I know work has been very slow and you have done absolutely nothing with yourselves," she continued into the living room with no invitation, "so I brought up some sweets and treats for you!" Sherlock sat down at his chemical table and leaned back in his chair, his black curls bobbing once and his distant yet clear blue eyes fixed readily on a spreading circle of mold on the ceiling. "No, Mrs. Hudson, we don't need any 'treats'," he replied almost annoyed. "You should bring them to Mycroft." He looked over to John and watched as he tilted his blonde head down and shook with a chuckle. Mrs. Hudson's expression switched quickly to a motherly scold as she rushed over to Sherlock and tweeked his large ear. "You quit being a nuisance and making fun of your brother!" Again, both John and he shared a laugh. She became fed up with their childishness and stormed off towards the door, reminding them viciously that if they needed anything, she would be downstairs, "But I'm not your housekeeper!"

"I'm going out tonight," John announced in a low voice. He twiddled his thumbs about his lap and shut his grey eyes, planning his date for the night. Why would he tell Sherlock something he had yet to even plan? He furrowed his eyebrows in regret. Sherlock glanced over from the table, his thin body in a perfect diagonal line to the floor, and looked questionably at John. John looked up at Sherlock.

"Where are you going? Sherlock asked; his fingertips remained tented beneath his sharp chin.

"The opera house," replied John.

"With a woman, I presume."

"Yes."

"Which one?"

"Which...which one? You make it seem as if I'm some sort of gigolo!" John's face grew slightly annoyed and red at the thought of such a thing. "Her name is Lea, if you're truly so curious."

"I am."

"But why? You certainly aren't coming!" John smirked. He was shocked at his friend's curiosity and presumed he had already known he wasn't invited. Obviously he must have known. How could he not? Of course he knew, John laughed to himself. But within minutes, Sherlock was up and in his room. "What opera?" He called, scavenging through his rather narrow closet.

"No!" John flew from his chair into the bedroom. "Absolutely not, Sherlock!" His wide blue eyes reflected the dim light that made its way through the closed curtains. The rain had dwindled down to a little more than a drizzle. "And why not, John?" Sherlock inquired. He returned to his feet holding a grey shirt and a pair of black slacks. John looked around to make sure this was actually happening. "Because, Sherlock!" He couldn't let Sherlock ruin yet another date, the first since the Gina fiasco last month.

"Sherlock, no, you cannot come," John finally said almost pitifully. He brought his stubby golden hand to his forehead and rubbed his temples. Sherlock dropped the pressed shirt he had grabbed off the hanger and looked questionably at his only friend. His head was tilted slightly to the right as he asked, "Why not? Is there a reason I can't join you?" He proceeded to approach John with eyebrows furrowed deeply. John took a step back when Sherlock reached the door frame.

"Sherlock, what're you-"

"WHY CAN I NOT GO!" Sherlock's eyes grew wide and fixed angrily on John, his fists remained tightly at his sides as he leaned forward. John didn't budge despite his common sense telling him that only God knew what Sherlock would do during withdrawals. "You're staying here and finding something to do to keep yourself busy while I'm gone," he coaxed while taking Sherlock by the shoulders and sitting him down in his armchair. The rain began lightening outside and a last small gust of wind blew through the open window. Sherlock's fingertips tapped frantically as John stepped away. As much as he wanted to be there for his friend while he quit his smoking habit, he knew that Sherlock was capable of getting through it himself, and he had to get on with his life to kill this boredom as well. The minutes never seemed so long and the days never seemed to drag on the way they had been the past few weeks. The blog was empty and the counter still, cases ceased to come in at all. _No one would come in this weather anyway_, John reasoned and sighed lightly to himself. There was a certain uneasiness throughout 221B, an uneasiness John recognized and Sherlock remained blind towards, hands still shaking. The nicotine stains between the tips of his fingers were already fading.


	2. Chapter 2

"Remember, Mum loves you," a voice whispered into the ear of Darlene Ire as she stood in her shiny new Mary Janes and watched as her mother left the white-washed living room. She rushed to the large window and placed one hand against the glass, wishing she could touch her mother's crisp dress and smell the beautiful fragrance that always lingered around her chestnut hair. Before her mother stepped into the cab, she turned back towards the house and gave Darlene a long glance. She had never been the openly affectionate type, but the look was a solemn one that held unspoken compassion towards the young girl. Their secretary closed the door behind her and both watched the black cab disappear into the gloomy London day.

Darlene ventured to the Victorian back room where her uncle waited. She had always been afraid of his voice, so low and raspy. It seemed unlikely that such a scratchy voice could come out of such a young man, but she knew better than to question him. He sat in his usual navy suit and white button down shirt, dark hair pushed back and matching navy scarf wrapped around his neck. His hands were spread open on his knees and his dark eyes cast down between his feet. She remained standing in the frame of the hallway before he motioned for her to come in without ever looking up. He rarely spoke due to his voice, but still remained intimidating to her, always composed and accompanied by his loyal unnamed companion. The man may have had a name, but Darlene never heard it and never had to address him so she found it useless to ask. He was a tall, lanky man with dirty blonde hair pushed to one side and small grey eyes. As she walked to her uncle, long brown curls tapping against her lower back, she found herself stuck between the two men. Fear built up in her small stomach as she waited for her uncle to croak out the plans for her. The sitting man cleared his throat with a long hollow cough and shifted his eyes to Darlene's shining shoes. He knew her mother had done well to prepare her; a smirk crept across his clean face as he examined the velvet red dress and white collar she wore. _Clever, darling. Very clever, _he thought to himself. Darlene glanced nervously between her uncle and his companion, anticipating one of them to speak. The blonde man spoke first. "Young Miss, your uncle has called for you a cab. It shall arrive very shortly, completely paid for and ready with directions to your destination." His voice was uninterested with a handsome Scottish twang to it. She found herself anxious to hear him speak some more. What was it about that voice, that hollow face and small eyes, that made her long for his attention? Of course there was nothing romantic about her longing, but she wanted some sort of paternal relationship with him? Anything was better than the lack of attention Uncle showed her. He was always away on business, and yet he always praised her when he was around and told her how great she will be one day. Darlene shuddered at the memory of Uncle's scratchy voice so close to her ear..._  
_

"You are going..." Uncle began in a difficult tone. The words came out slowly and incomprehensibly, making Darlene long for him to quicken his pace or shorten his note. Before he continued, he put his arm around her tiny waist and sat her on his knee. The suit was crisp and cold, just like him."You're helping Mummy and Uncle...very much. Do you know...that?" His breath smelt like peppermint and made the hair on her neck stand up with a little shiver. She did her best to smile and answered, "Yes, sir. Mum told me so." A little spring of happiness came upon as she thought of making her mother happy. Mum gave her everything she asked for, but sometimes Darlene wondered if she _actually_ enjoyed her own daughter. She shook the sadness away before it consumed her little mind and stood up straight. "You'll see, Uncle. I'll be the best!" A little giggle slipped out and she forgot all about her uncle's frightening appearance; now it was her turn to take charge. He smiled at his confident niece, a smile she had never seen except during a few rare phone calls. "That's my girl," he pushed out in a hoarse voice ending in a coughing fit. Darlene stepped back and out of his way. She gripped the sides of her dress frantically and forced herself to remain still again. He continued to wheeze, long hollow coughs bellowing into his closed fist and his eyes shut tight to the point of tears. The companion came over and took her to the door with a long arm reaching down to her opposite shoulder. "The cab is here, young Miss." Darlene patted her stomach and led herself to the black car.

The doorbell rang with a long _dinggg!_ through Mrs. Hudson's lower apartment. Her spidery hands were dipped in dish water as she scrubbed off the boys' dinner. "John! Can you be a dear and get the door for me? I'm sure it's for you or Sherlock anyway!" She began shaking her head and picking off the grease stuck in the middle of a plate. "Always at ungodly hours of the night, these boys. How can an old woman get anything done when the darn door is always ringing!" she muttered to herself in her sweet English voice. From outside her door she could hear John slowly descending the stairs, his limp returning once again, and Sherlock playing his violin. The song sounded familiar, but it held a certain improvisation in it's collection of notes; he always had a knack for composition during hiatus' from work. "I've got it, Mrs. Hudson," John called from the hallway. She peered out at him, her motherly instinct kicking in, and checked his appearance. The blonde hair he wore so childishly was a bit unkept, but not completely uncared for, pants wrinkled only at the left knee, dirty shirt crinkled at the neck, and no shoes. He glanced back at her with a smile before opening the door. The bags under his eyes showed the stress Sherlock's return was still putting on him, and the small lips were still a bit pale. She worried for him. "Alright, dear," was all she could return and a half smile was all she could summon up upon her pink lips.

John Watson grasped the knob with a sigh. Why so late? There was never a new case after eight o'clock, at least not without a forewarning or appointment. He closed his eyes annoyed and opened the door. "I'm sorry, but we can't help..." His voice seemed to trail off into the darkness of Baker Street with no recipient. He continued to strain his eyes and glance down both ways of the street. _I don't have time for these pranks..._, he thought to himself. "Why do you have a cane?" The small voice caught John off guard. He took an involuntarily step back and stopped. Down in front of him at around the height of his abdominal stood Darlene Ire. Her big green eyes sparkled up at him with fascination and a hint of mischief and she flashed her white pearls as she spoke. "Hi!" The smile haunted and startled him. He found himself slowly moving backwards back into the hallway calling for Mrs. Hudson. "I need some help here, Mrs. Hudson," he beckoned in a shakey tone. While he looked back into the hallway, Darlene snuck between his right leg and his cane and stood in Mrs. Hudson's doorframe. The little old woman emerged from her kitchen drying her hands with a red rag when she spotted the little girl. Her eyes grew large and her mouth dropped open into an 'o'. Darlene smiled brightly at Mrs. Hudson then turned her attention towards the staircase and followed the sweet violin concerto sounds. "What's that noise? It sounds pretty!" her little voice exclaimed. John was still dumbfounded when he closed the door and approached Darlene, answering, "That's..uh.." But his explanation was in vain, she was already halfway up the steps when she stopped. "Who are you, deary?" Mrs. Hudson inquired sweetly, taking her place next to John at the bottom of the staircase. Darlene spun around, her dress making a perfect circle around her shins and her brown curls landing in front of her shoulder. "I'm Sherlock's daughter!"


End file.
